I Got You
by writeanonymous
Summary: Sam's bullied in school, a fact that he's always tried to keep his big brother in the dark about. Eventually, it gets taken too far. (for soulforsam on tumblr, since I hit ask limit!)((may get extended into a full-length story if there's demand for it, and if I can work up the motivation to write it.))


It started in seventh grade when he got caught staring in the locker room. At that age, it was more curiosity than anything; but at that age, it was also more than enough of an excuse for the other boy to let off some steam in the form of pushing Sam Winchester face-first into the cool green metal of his p.e. locker. The tinny sound resonated across the tiled floors and easily garnered the attention of the rest of the boys, already hyped up from 45 minutes of testosterone-fueled contact sport. A chorus of pubescent "oooohs" echoed hollowly off the white-painted brick walls, all eyes on the lanky teen in question.

"You checkin' me out, Losechester?" the perpetrator hissed, inches from the back of Sam's neck, inducing a full-bodied shiver.

Sam, who was already flushed red from shoulder to hairline, shook his head frantically. "N-no, sorr-"

He was cut off with another harsh shove. "Keep your faggot eyes to yourself, cocksucker."

At a loss for words, and feeling beyond embarrassed, Sam just snapped his jaw shut and nodded.

"Good." The locker room erupted in taunts and faked whispers as it cleared out in time for the class change. Sam remained on the floor, shaking and ashamed. He spent the rest of the school day hiding behind the gym on a hill overlooking the track.

When he finally got home, he was met at the door by an angry big brother. "What the hell, Sammy? I get a call during precal saying you're not in class? You skipping classes now?"

Sam averts his gaze to a chip fake wood flooring where their dad had come home drunk and knocked a family portrait off the wall. "No."

He didn't have to be looking at Dean to see his eyes narrow and his body turn into an offensive position. Sam's body twisted automatically to counter it, obviously not preparing for a physical confrontation, but steeling his nerves all the same. "What the fuck does that mean, 'no'? Sammy, you weren't in class; you skipped school. What's going on?"

"Nothing. I just felt sick and stayed in the bathroom. I'm sorry." His tone was flat, an effort to pass his lie. Dean had a special knack for weaseling the truth from him; he was a human lie detector, at least when it came to Sam.

Dean's posture dropped so fast it was almost comical. "Are you feeling better?" he prodded, protective instincts kicking in automatically. Sam almost snorted at the irony, _if only Dean knew what really happened, he'd be expressing a lot more than brotherly concern, _but he didn't act on it. Instead, he shrugged.

"I dunno. Kind of nauseous. I just wanna lie down." He shouldered his way around his anxious sibling and made his way across the one-story home to their shared bedroom, not wanting to continue a conversation that made him feel so guilty. Dean's eyebrows creased in worry, but he didn't say anything more on the subject, for which Sam was grateful.

He couldn't tell Dean. He would ask too many questions, like who the perpetrators were, and why they were messing with him, and besides, it was just a one-time thing. Best to just let it go.

Three years later, Sam comes home with a black eye. Frankly, he was less surprised than he thought he'd be. He knew that someday they would stop keeping their aggressions below the collar, but he expected it to be a lot sooner than it was. They'd continued their torments, obviously, and a good percentage was physical, but normally they'd try and hide the evidence to avoid suspension or expulsion. Sam would school his features and limp home, keeping his weight off of a bad leg, ghosting around sore ribs, rolling bruised shoulders; he'd brush off Dean's comments on his downtrodden appearance by blaming homework loads, or girl trouble, insuring that his brother was kept in the dark about his sexuality. He couldn't bear for Dean to look at him the way _they_ did, to talk to him the way they did.

But a black eye, that would be hard to explain away. He managed, though, blaming a wayward swing of a baseball bat at gym. Dean didn't look entirely convinced, and he rushed around the kitchen to fashion a makeshift ice pack out of popsicles and a threadbare towel, but he didn't press the issue.

It wasn't until junior year, the night of homecoming, that Sam realized fully how serious his situation was. He'd taken his best friend Jess to the dance, seeing as how she was on the planning committee and insisted on having a date. They'd danced, Sam more awkwardly than Jess, drank punch, and had a pretty good time. Jess had smuggled some peach schnapps from her mother's liquor cabinet, and that loosened their limbs enough to really let go and have fun on the dance floor, but left them walking home. Sam may have been gay, but he was also a gentleman, and he walked Jess right up to her door and kissed her cheek goodnight, like always. She knew about his sexuality and supported him, often encouraging him to fight back against his tormentors, to which he'd reply, "Not today. They'll get theirs in the real world." How much of this he actually believed, he wasn't sure. Sam was made of 55% optimism and 45% secrets, and she would just look at him worriedly before sighing and dropping the subject.

Sam was making his way home, just a two mile walk from Jess's house, when he got the sense that he was being followed. He checked over his shoulder and grimaced; of _course_ they were following him.

"Woo hoo, Winchester!" one of them hollered. "Got yourself a sweet little thing! Tight little blondie!" Sam turned around, bolstered by the alcohol and crisp fall air.

"Shut up, Gordon. For fucks' sake."

"What was that, twinkletoes?" Gordon was approaching more quickly now, sloppy from his own intake. "Getting brave on us, huh? Puttin' on your dom daddy boots?" Sam felt a presence at his back before getting shoved forward into Gordon's chest, and looked around to see three other boys from school.

He blinked hard in the blurry streetlight, attempting to ground himself for the first blow, but really, he never did expect to last long.

When he woke up, it was beyond chilly, and still dark as pitch. He groaned and sat upright, jerking at the sharp pain in his side. It hurt to breathe, and a few presses against his left side left him hissing and squeezing his eyes shut, willing the world away. He didn't know the extent of the damage yet, but he couldn't see from his right eye, and his face felt tacky with cool blood. Everything hurt, and the alcohol was still thriving in his system, so he couldn't have been out long. He made his way home, disoriented and tired, aching all over.

The first thing he noticed was the living room light shining through the window, meaning Dean was up waiting for him. He groaned and climbed the porch steps slowly, dreading the encounter already.

When he rounded the corner to the living room, Dean stood up and turned to face him, smiling, ready to grill his baby brother about the first dance he'd actually attended. Obviously, it went a little differently.

The air in the room dropped ten degrees when Dean took in his appearance, and he crossed the distance between them in two strides, hands fluttering around Sam's aching form uselessly. "Sammy, fuck, what happened? Oh my god, Sammy-"

"It's fine, Dean," Sam slurred. "I just… it's fine."

"Sammy, no, it's not fine, what the fuck happened?" Dean steered him into the bathroom and sat him on the closed toilet lid, rummaging for the first aid kit he_ knew_ was in here somewhere-

"Dean, please," Sam whispered. Dean leaned against the counter and took a few steadying breaths.

"Who."

"What?"

"Don't you fucking…" Dean let out a humorless chuckle. "I should have fucking known, hell, I _did _know, I _knew _it; but you just kept playing it off…"

"Dean…"

"Who does this to you, Sammy?" he whispered. "You fucking tell me, or I'll tear up every goddamn dickwad in that school just to make sure I get 'em."

"Dean, it's not that big of a deal."

Dean turned to him. "Not a big deal? Sam, I don't know if you've seen yourself, or hell, maybe they damaged something important and you can't feel anything right now, but you've been beat to shit, and that's a big fucking deal. And don't try and play this off like it's the first time, okay, because goddammit I _knew_ this was happening and you just kept playing it off and I figured you had it under control-"

"I do have it under control! It's not-"

"Shut UP, Sammy, just… give me names. I want names." Dean was kneeling in front of him now, wet rag in hand, wiping blood from his face in gentle strokes that completely counteracted his tone.

"No."

Dean closed his eyes and sighed. "I'll just ask Jess."

Sam groaned and pushed him away. "Dammit, Dean, just leave it alone!"

"Why are you acting like this?" his brother asked, desperation making his voice crack. "Why are you acting like this is no big deal? They're _breaking_ you, I can see it, every time you limp through that goddamn door, every day you look sadder, and less alive, and it's killing me, Sammy, it's killing me, too." Dean scrubs at his own face now, trying to get his emotions in check. Stay strong for Sammy. "I can't watch this happen anymore, Sam, this is so bad. I can't do this again. I can't… fuck. You're so… there's blood, and…"

His fists clench in determination. "I'm calling Jess. I'm figuring this out, whether you want me to or not. This is over. This ain't fucking happening again."

"Dean-!" He was already out of the bathroom with his phone to his ear, but Sam snatched it away and ended the call before Jess could answer. "Dammit, Dean! Stop!"

"Why are they even doing this, huh? Why you?"

Sam stared at the floor. "Just because."

"_Why_ because? Is it your grades? You won't do their homework or something? Is it-"

"Dean, shut up. You don't know anything."

"Is it because you're gay?" Sam's blood ran cold in an instant, eyes wide and fixed on Dean's knees.

"What?"

"Is it…" Dean shifted his weight, "Is it 'cause you're gay?"

"Why would you-"

"Just cut the crap, Sammy," Dean cut him off. "I know, okay? You can hide the porn all you want, but I _know_. I changed your fuckin' diapers; I know everything about you, so just tell me. I'm right, right?"

"Dean," Sam started, feeling a burn behind his eyes and a hard knot in his throat. "Fuck!" he mock-laughed, rolling his head back on his shoulders and squeezing his eyes shut. "Of _course_ you knew," he croaked. "Of course. And now faggot's gonna cry-"

Dean cut him off with a bear hug, arms so tight around Sam's bruised frame, face buried in his hair, pressed together from knee to nose. "Don't you do that," he murmured, choked. "Don't you fuckin' feel ashamed for who you are, Sammy. You know it doesn't matter, right? You gotta know I don't care about that shit, right?"

And Sam just let it go, breaking down into his big brother's body-warm shoulder, fingers digging into the tense skin beneath his shoulder blades. Dean's arms tightened in response. "I got you, Sammy," he whispered. "I got you. And I'm gonna take care of this, okay?"

Sam just nodded and pressed himself closer.

"I got you."


End file.
